


We Can Work It Out

by Haxifax



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haxifax/pseuds/Haxifax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucas grew up in Brazil, with siblings and cousins and playing football on pavement and getting into fights. His father had had no qualms about disciplining his children when they acted out, and even as a teenager Lucas had been on the receiving end of his father’s belt on more than one occasion. He’d fondly tell Jordan stories as they watched the dishes together, Lucas drying while Jordan had soap up to his elbows. The time he hit his brother with a spatula and got a faceful of soapy water when his father smacked him over the sink. When he’d thrown his cleats at a lamp in a fit of rage and his father whipped him with one of them -- studs away, thankfully. </p><p>Or the one where Lucas thinks Jordan needs to punish him, and Jordan thinks that's less than a stellar idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Work It Out

**Author's Note:**

> I have this headcannon that Lucas and Hendo are practically an old married couple but for some reason practically no one knows it. And Hendo is all serious and stern and Lucas is his better half. And sometimes Hendo needs Lucas to hug him and tell him it’s all right when he thinks he’s messed up. And when something’s wrong with Lucas, Hendo just completely flips and has no idea what to do, and he gets frantic and calls everybody from Stevie to James for help, and they just think it’s funny.
> 
> There really isn't enough Hendo/Lucas love out there, and though I really meant to start with a nice cheerful fic, I would up with this contemplative garbage instead. 
> 
> This contains spanking and a lot of pondering of the morality of disciplining your lover. 
> 
> (Just to be clear, the terrible crime Lucas commits isn't all that terrible -- just getting a bit drunk on a Saturday instead of facing his problems. But drowning oneself in alcohol is a no-no for a good, upstanding footballer like Lucas. Not really. But we'll pretend it is.)

“I don’t think” Jordan swallowed. I don't think I can do this. Instead he said “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Lucas was slumped in front of him. He looked tired and more stressed than Jordan could ever remember. In his hands, clamped tight and held stiffly to his chest, was Jordan’s hairbrush. 

The Brazilian blinked and looked down. “I… if you are afraid, uh,” he swallowed. “You won’t hurt me. My father, he do this all the time, when I was. I mean, back in Brazil.” His hands that clenched the brush trembled ever so slightly. 

What could one even do in this situation? Jordan looked towards the wall, frustrated. There was a yellowing stain he hadn’t noticed before. Probably Lucas’s fault, the blonde loved to take baths and wasn’t very careful with where the water splashed. He’d let water flood all the way through the drywall. He’d probably have to replace the whole ceiling. The thought should have made Jordan angry. He took pride in cleanliness, in keeping order in his home, and lucas was like a dog that tracked mud all over the furniture. 

Jordan squeezed his eyes shut. He should want to punish Lucas. He should want to throw the Brazilian over his knee and smack some sense into him. James wouldn’t have a problem with it, probably, and Stevie had even been known to give a younger player more than a stern word on occasion. 

And yet, Jordan was not James. Jordan was not Stevie, and Lucas was not just a teammate in trouble for fighting on the pitch or running his mouth at the ref. 

Lucas was not just a teammate. 

Jordan took the brush out of Lucas’s hands and turned it over in his hands absently, fingers running along the smooth wood. He tried to remember what he had read about this sort of thing, when he was a horny teenager curious about anything that...well, yeah. Spanking. The word seemed like a nasty stain, to him, and he had been repulsed by what he’d found, but some people were into that sort of thing. Being dominated. Being hurt. 

Hurting people.

Jordan’s stomach rolled. He had been the kid in school who caught the spiders and let them out outside. The one who yelled at his mom to stop the car when a squirrel ran onto the road. The thought of raising his hand against Lucas, even in a sexual way -- which this was not -- it was beyond imaginable. It filled his mind with old news articles about Chris Brown and wives with handprints on their cheeks. It made him remember seeing his father raise his hand to strike his mother during a fight and freezing, horror dawning over his face as he realized what he had been about to do. His father gripping him tight on his shoulders and making him swear that he would never, ever repeat what he had seen, no matter what happened. Telling him that he could never hit someone, that hurting someone was never the answer.

But Lucas didn’t know that. Lucas grew up in Brazil, with siblings and cousins and playing football on pavement and getting into fights. His father had had no qualms about disciplining his children when they acted out, and even as a teenager Lucas had been on the receiving end of his father’s belt on more than one occasion. He’d fondly tell Jordan stories as they watched the dishes together, Lucas drying while Jordan had soap up to his elbows. The time he hit his brother with a spatula and got a faceful of soapy water when his father smacked him over the sink. When he’d thrown his cleats at a lamp in a fit of rage and his father whipped him with one of them -- studs away, thankfully. 

Jordan always winced when Lucas told him these stories, but he didn’t think the Brazilian had ever noticed. Actually, he was sure he hadn’t, or he wouldn’t be asking Jordan to do what he was. 

They’d grown up in two different places. Lived different lives, learned different things. Jordan learned to fix his mistakes with hard work and time. There was no real punishment, no instant solution. Problems were solved over time. 

Lucas didn’t know how to wait for forgiveness. He hounded a situation until he could put it right again. He’d punch a player on the pitch and hug him at the end of the match. He’d fight with a teammate, then send him doe-eyed emoticons and stupid jokes until he laughed. 

It had been a problem for them early on. When they argued, Lucas would follow him through the flat, trying to finish the discussion or apologise, and Jordan would get angrier and angrier as he wanted his space until he’d end up yelling at Lucas and they’d start to fight again. It was a sickening downward spiral -- he was twenty one and unused to real relationships. His parents had married in their early thirties, and he’d never really had anyone before. Lucas hadn’t really either, but he was twenty five and his parents had married five years younger than that and had two children by his age. They hadn’t known how to fix it. 

So Jordan had left. They’d fought over something stupid -- yellow cards on the pitch or something, and it had turned into how Jordan never told Lucas when he was angry, just expected him to know it, and he was sick of fighting, of feeling constantly crowded, of Lucas, and so he walked out the door. Lucas hadn’t even followed, just watched from the doorway with pale blue eyes wide, utterly stunned that he’d done that, that Jordan had just walked out like that. 

He’d still owned his own place back then, so it made sense that he’d go there for some peace and quiet. Some time to gather his thoughts. Some space. 

Instead he got a ringing phone and a sleep-deprived, angry Stevie on the line telling him he’d better get his ass back to his flat and face his goddamn problem before Stevie gave him a new one to worry about. 

It was the first time he’d ever seen Lucas close to tears. He was on Jordan’s bed, messy curls clinging to his face and knees to his chest, and though his cheeks were dry, Jordan felt as though his entire world shifted its focus until all he could think was I hurt him I hurt him I hurt him and he pulled Lucas into a desperate sort of hug, like he’d only just realized exactly how important it was that Lucas was there everyday, smile more blinding than the sun, happiness so contagious it was like a drug that Jordan needed just to feel right. 

It was the sort of change in understanding that a father holding his child for the first time might feel. The sort of thing that happened slowly in relationships, over the course of years as people fell in and out of lust but never out of love. But Jordan had never been good at relationships. 

It changed everything. All at once, everything that was wrong with them was right. Lucas needed him close and it didn’t matter so much that he felt suffocated -- because it wasn’t suffocating anymore, not really -- walls that used to close him in became comforting barriers against the outside. No more did Jordan lie stiffly in bed until Lucas fell asleep and then carefully extract himself from the Brazilian’s arms so that he could sleep alone, on the couch. The flash of irritation when Lucas snuck up behind him with a surprise hug became a stinging warmth in his chest. 

And now, four years later, when everything else had changed -- Stevie left Liverpool and Jordan, and more importantly left Liverpool to Jordan. Left him the captaincy. And Luis left with his sharp grin and wild, crazy passion. He went to Barca, but he never left the fans or his teammates, not really. Stevie’s departure had hurt far worse. There was no Liverpool without Stevie, not for as long as Jordan could remember. 

But he managed. He kept a straight face to the media, to Brendan, even to Stevie when he called to check in and Jordan felt the bitterness bubble up, why, why did you do this to me, Stevie? Why did you abandon Liverpool? Why did you leave me?

He would never have managed without Lucas. He had to learn everything -- how to talk to his teammates as a captain when he honestly wasn’t very good at speaking to anybody in any fashion. How to know when something was wrong with a player and how to confront him. How to be the bridge between manager and players, and oh how he fucked that one up. Raheem stormed out of Liverpool and there was nothing Jordan could do to stop him.

But now, it had become almost comfortable. He had James to help him when his public speaking skills came up short, or when a younger player caused trouble and his mind drew a blank on how to deal with him. He had Lucas when Philippe started crying in the locker room and couldn’t manage enough English to explain what was wrong. (He’d been devastated about the loss against Dortmund. Jordan had thought he was having appendicitis.)

He also had Lucas at home. His rock, his world. Everything he needed. He’d just forgotten that Lucas needed him too, sometimes even when he didn’t say so. 

He certainly hadn’t said so this time, but Jordan was pretty sure he shouldn’t have had to. This is my fault. I should’ve known there was something wrong. I could’ve stopped this.

And now Lucas was standing in front of him, eyes red and knuckles white. He’d gone for a drink. Lucas never drank. But for some reason, he had felt stressed enough that he’d come to the conclusion that heading to the bar at 3:00 on a Saturday was preferable to facing Jordan at home. And all because Jordan had casually asked Lucas to lend a hand to the near-illiterate Brazilians, maybe get them to basic conversations in English. But Philippe was young and headstrong and had much better things to do than sit down and work on his speaking skills when he could understand what was being said perfectly fine. And Roberto had Phillippe to translate, so… yeah. 

And all this had left Lucas feeling guilty, like he had somehow let Jordan down, over something so unimportant as a couple of Brazilians. 

“I’m gonna pummel Philippe,” Jordan said, a blatant lie but it made him feel better. Lucas sniffed and finally looked up at him. 

“Don’t. Is not his fault.”

Jordan set the brush down on the bed behind him, reconsidered, then moved it to the bedside table. He sat on the bed. He patted the spot beside him, then shifted so he was facing Lucas as he reluctantly joined him, eyes to the floor again. 

“I don’t believe in this sort of thing. You know.” Jordan cleared his throat, and Lucas looked up at him, eyes searching. Jordan sighed. “I know you think that me -- me, well, spanking you -- that it’s gonna fix this.” Lucas opened his mouth but Jordan barreled on, determined to get his words out before he changed his mind. “I don’t believe in this. I don’t. But I’m usually wrong, so. So if this is what you need,” Jordan met Lucas’s eyes as steadily as he knew how, “if this is what you need, I’ll give it a go.”

Lucas looked shocked. At once Jordan realized that he was wrong -- Lucas was smart enough to realize that Jordan didn’t do this sort of thing. 

“Okay.”

“Okay as in -- as in you want me to do this?” Jordan glanced at the brush and Lucas followed his gaze, and after a moment’s hesitation, nodded. Jordan’s heart sank, but he steeled himself. “Okay then, then you’d better...uh…”

But Lucas had already stood up and was stripping off Jordan’s hoodie that he’d wrapped him in when he picked him up outside the bar, no longer drunk but cold and miserably wet from the icy February rain. It took Jordan a moment before he realized that Lucas was fumbling with his belt buckle as well, numb fingers slipping on the button. He put a hand over the Brazilian’s and shook his head. He was willing to try this, but not -- and especially not if he was going to be using the brush, which Lucas clearly expected him to. 

Lucas shot him a questioning glance but left his jeans on, then quite suddenly clambered onto the bed next to Jordan -- onto Jordan so that his stomach was resting on his thighs and his legs extended almost, but not quite, off the end of the bed. He grabbed a pillow and wrapped his arms around it, then stilled. Waiting. 

Jordan reached for the hairbrush. Just do it. He thumbed the wooden handle and allowed his eyes to drift along Lucas’s back and over the curve of his arse. This could be sexual. It could, but it wasn’t. It felt to much like -- like exactly what it was, Jordan guessed. 

He raised the brush, then lowered it until it was hovering over Lucas’s right back pocket. He didn’t want to miss. 

If the first crack of the brush surprised Lucas, he didn’t show it. He waited for a moment, then carefully breathed out. Jordan swallowed. That was good. Not too gentle, but I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t.

He brought the brush down again. Then a third time, and after a moment’s pause, twice more in quick succession.

When he reached the sixth, Jordan was beginning to feel better -- Lucas hadn’t reacted much, and he felt like maybe he could do this. So he brought the brush down again, a little harder maybe, and Lucas made the softest of sounds. Just a hitch of breath, not even a whimper or a groan, but it stopped Jordan cold. I can’t do this. Oh god, what am I doing?

Then Lucas turned his head out of the pillow just enough to catch Jordan’s eyes and whispered, “Jordan, please.”

So he steeled himself. He shut off his brain and raised the brush.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jordan stared at the ceiling. It was 2:00 in the morning. His hand felt tingly, as though he could still feel the brush handle in it. 

He didn’t feel good. He wasn’t sure how long the spanking lasted -- until Lucas flinched when the brush came down and the hitching breath really was whimpering. Jordan could only thank the stars that he hadn’t made Lucas cry -- if he had, he didn’t know how he could’ve lived with himself. He felt bad enough as it was.

After he tossed the brush across the room and shifted so that he was lying on the bed with Lucas half on top of him, he’d just held the Brazilian, ghosting his hand over his lower back until he stopped trembling and, eventually, fell asleep. 

He felt Lucas shift on his arm. Jordan looked down and met sleepy eyes. Lucas shifted until his arm was no longer trapped between him and the bed and he settled further into Jordan’s side. Jordan pulled him closer.

“I can’t do that again.”

Lucas stayed still for a moment, then turned his head so his nose brushed the crook of Jordan’s elbow. 

“I know.”

He didn’t look at Jordan, but somehow he felt as though a weight were lifted from his chest even as Lucas rested an arm on top of it. Maybe it’s not just me who’s changing for him. Maybe it’s both of us.

They were gonna be okay.


End file.
